


A Dangerous Method

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: A Dangerous Method (2011), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: (lite), Alpha Charles Xavier, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Bad Therapy, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Jewish Character, Exploitation, Gender Non-Conforming Character, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Erik Lehnsherr, Oral Sex, Paralysis, Psychiatry bashing, Psychoanalysis, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trauma, Vaginal Sex, i can't believe that's not a tag yet MAGNETO WAS RIGHT, liberationist movements, magneto was right, past depression, pathologization, suppressants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17489096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: Charles Xavier is head psychiatrist and founder of the Xavier Institute for the Criminally Insane Mutant. He has been entrusted with the rehabilitation of the notorious mutant terrorist Magneto, a recently outed omega with a clear case of orientation confusion and antisocial personality.Despite his best intentions to provide the highest standard of clinical care, the more Doctor Xavier interacts with his willful patient, the more he begins to question the divide between pathology and health, conformity and freedom.





	A Dangerous Method

**Author's Note:**

> title is a blatant ripoff of the movie by the same name (because it's a good title, that's why), but pretty wildly diverges in everything but the ~atmosphere. and, hopefully, with a better virginity scene. Ugh. No need to know anything about the movie!
> 
> A/b/o because I needed a universe that had a third sex, but I don't go much into a lot of typical a/b/o stuff. Omegas here have internal and external genitalia and can carry children
> 
> Na/Sa is the omega equivalent of Ms./Mrs. (before/after marriage), taken from the worldbuilding in Venusm's fic Born from the Earth
> 
> All suppressants mentioned in this fic are for suppression of mutation.

_MUTANT TERRORIST "MAGNETO" APPREHENDED_

_The mysterious metal-bending mutant terrorist known as Magneto to the press was apprehended late last night in an international sting operation. Information forthcoming on whether he will be extradited to face justice, as this will require confirmation of the killer's identity..._

Charles forwent an in-depth read of the article to study the accompanying photograph. A shadowy figure lay pinned to the ground; the needle in his neck shone in the dark. There was just enough light from the camera flash to make out an upturned face, grin stretched across it like a barracuda. It was this smile that arrested him time and time again as he went through the file. What had the man been thinking? Had there been some unconscious yearning for capture, even then?

Charles drew out the next clipping with careful hands; he'd creased it unthinkingly as they'd all watched the trial in the common area. It had been relatively short. Magneto had not been allowed to take the stand.

_MAGNETO UNMASKED: OMEGA ERIK LEHNSHERR IN MASQUERADE_

The photograph was from a news magazine, high gloss and full color. Gone was the image of Magneto in full cape and metal helmet, high and untouchable. This man- this omega- had been given a clean shave, and was dressed in tight-fitting, highly starched fabrics. His military cut had grown out to something softer from his weeks in prison, but his gaze was anything but. He sat tall, proud, looking only to the judge. 

The next items in the file were ones that Charles knew well and could learn nothing more from. Expert witness testimony; diagnosis of antisocial personality, mentally unsound. Orientation confusion is underlined twice. All items that fall under disordered personality, and at this point Charles knows the diagnostic criteria by heart in any case.

He closes the folder and lays it on the desk; old now, scratched here and there with use, but highly polished and richly stained. He neatly stacks his other tab folders and levers them into hanging folders in the desk drawer; the tabs are neatly typewritten. Homo mutandis, X genes, mutatis mutandis just to amuse himself.

He's positioned his desk in front of the study's window, an old grand thing with thick panes of glass. It's so quiet here that he can imagine he hears the dust motes passing by in the afternoon light. He's never quite gotten used to it again, even years after the founding of the Xavier Institute for the Criminally Insane Mutant. The grounds are verdant with deep summer, broad oaks here and there across grassy fields, a long gravel drive snaking into the distance where it connects with the road.

On the road at the very edge of the property a car approaches, all shining black save for one white stripe over the cab.

Charles unlocks his hand break, wheels backward away from the desk, and turns to leave down the hall.

By the time Charles has taken the lift down and wheeled to the main entrance, the police car has parked in the circular asphalt that serves as the termination of the drive. They have opened the front doors but left the back cage closed.

"Good morning, Doctor," Hank greets as he pulls the door open.

"Hank," Charles sighs as he wheels on to the stone landing, "I 've told you it's absurd for you to call me that. We will inevitably end up in a circular match of calling one another by the same title and no one will know to whom anyone is referring.

''Of course, Doctor Xavier," Hank smiles as Charles shakes his head.

"Good morning, chaps!" Charles calls with a smile. “We can take it from here!”

The police officers give him and Hank a dubious look, but seem to shrug to one another and open the back door.

The prisoner is wearing a simple, loose grey shift tied at the waist, and is shackled at the hands and feet. He moves slowly, and does not react when the officer makes sure to slam the prisoner's shoulder on the door, only looks calculatingly around at the mansion and its grounds.

The prisoner makes his slow way up the wide stairs, flanked on either side by an officer. He does not look at Charles, still assessing the grounds. Below the hem of the shift, Charles can see the plastic ankle bracelet.

"You can uncuff him now, thank you," Charles orders.

The officers do not immediately comply, and Charles sighs.

“He's perfectly safe on suppressants, and he'll hardly be able to leave the grounds with the precautionary measures you've taken. Like I said, we’ll handle it from here." His smile has gone a bit sharper now, and he is sitting up as straight as possible in the chair.

The officers give him a look as if to say, your funeral, and uncuff the prisoner.

Lehnsherr, to Charles' relief, does not try for some foolish dash as soon as the cuffs are removed.

"Welcome, Na Lehnsherr,” Charles extends a hand. ''My name is Doctor Xavier, and I'm the lead psychiatrist and founder of the Institute."

The prisoner does not make any attempt to shake Charles' hand, just lets his gaze pass over him for a moment, lingering briefly on the wheelchair, then looks to the door. Charles can sense nothing on the surface but a kind of emptiness, calm and waiting.

Charles flushes, annoyed, but covers it quickly and lets his hand fall back onto the handrim.

“Watch out for that one," one of the officers says darkly before getting back in the vehicle.

At this, Charles sees a brief twinge of amusement pass over Lehnsherr's features, there and gone.

"The gate will lock and re-arm automatically behind you," Hank calls, then opens the main doors and gestures to Lehnsherr as Charles wheels through.

Lehnsherr makes as if to follow Hank as he goes down to his laboratory, but Charles shakes his head.

"This way, if you please," Charles gestures to the elevator. "We’ll meet in my office to discuss expectations for your behavior here.

Lehnsherr does not acknowledge the statement, but he follows Charles easily enough. The ride up one level is silent, the journey down the corridor punctuated only by the rhythmic roll of Charles' wheels on hardwood, quiet footsteps following behind. Lehnsherr isn't wearing shoes, which is odd, but perhaps he made a nuisance of them while in prison. What he might have done with them after he was discovered and moved to solitary, Charles has no idea.

When Charles opens the door to his office and turns to look back at Lehnsherr, he is staring at the paintings in their gilded frames lining the walls.

“My great-uncle Theodore, Charles points. “Miserable bastard. I liked him quite a lot."

Lehnsherr does not comment, just holds the door and follows Charles in.

"Right,” Charles wheels in behind his desk, which has been angled to provide plenty of clearance, and gestures to a chair across from him. Lehnsherr sits, and, true to form, starts surveying the room.

"The rules here are simple. Dr. McCoy and I administer treatment plans which we expect patients to follow. Every patient meets with their analyst starting at four sessions per week. Medication is administered by our nurses, Marie and Kurt. Those with mutations that are uncontrollable or have been deemed by the court to be a danger to others will be given suppressants at regular intervals. I've been advised you have a tendency to attempt to palm suppressants, so we will be continuing injections of high-potency, long-acting suppressants. Any questions thus far?"

Lehnsherr looks stonily at the wall, as if he might ignite the wood paneling through force of will.

"All other hours of the day, you will be left to your own devices. Most patients take up some form of occupation that is of interest to them and help to maintain the facility. If you follow our expectations, you will be allowed access to the grounds for your exercise and enjoyment. If you desire any particular books or other items that might be of use to you, you can request them.

“On the other hand, if you prove through your actions that you are a danger to yourself or others, you will be placed in solitary confinement and restrained or sedated as necessary," Charles gives him a long look. “I will not allow anyone to harm my patients. In sum, if you respect the staff and the other patients here, I will respect you in return. If you are thinking of attempting to leave these grounds, do not. With our fence system, your electrified bracelet, and certain abilities of our staff, you will not be able to get far.”

At the word abilities, a flicker of interest crosses Lehnsherr's face, but it is soon gone.

"Our ability to provide the space that we do for our patients depends on our reputation as an institution, and I will not jeopardize that. Charles examines Lehnsherr's posture, held military straight through this entire conversation. "I think that you’ll find this is an institution unlike any other, and I hope you'll be comfortable here.”

The silence stretches between them, and Charles feels his exasperation grow, but refuses to rise to the bait.

"Na Lehnsherr, I will need some confirmation that you've understood me. If you would prefer, Na Wagner can repeat these instructions in German.”

“I understand," Lehnsherr says, and Charles nearly jumps. His voice is deeper than he expected, German accented vowels dragging but perfectly annunciated.

“Very well," Charles recovers. “I'll have Kurt show you to your room. You'll be sharing with Na Cassidy.”

When Kurt enters, Lehnsherr looks briefly stunned, then smiles. "Guten tag. Was fur eine unglaubliche mutation!”

Kurt also looks surprised, then seeming to read that Lehnsherr is genuine, smiles softly, tail flicking behind himself. "It is nothing. Come, I will show you everything.

Lehnsherr lapses back into his previously laconic state by dinner time, not speaking with anyone at the table, watching. The more Charles reflects upon it, the more he understands the gaze to be that of a predator, a hunter- the quiet watchfulness, the cessation of breath before the lunge.

Charles feels sure that he will attempt to run that night, and run he does.

It is nearly two in the morning, all other occupants of the Institute soundly asleep when he feels it; a wakeful mind, projecting caution, easing through a bedroom door with shoes in hand. Charles waits a moment to see what he will do- there’s a tiptoe through the corridor and down the stairs, examination of the door for any devices that will sound. He's insulated the ankle bracelet; very clever, but it will only slightly dull the shock. Not that Charles intends it to get anywhere near that far; they have no use for such things here. There is a reason the doors are not alarmed.

Charles sends Kurt a mental nudge to wakefulness when Lehnsherr opens the door. _He's running across the west grounds_ he thinks. _Near the pond._

Within a breath, Kurt's mind has disappeared then reappeared across the grounds, disappeared again, then reappeared with Lehnsherr in tow in the confinement room.

"Doctor Xavier," Kurt appears at the foot of Charles' bed. "He's in." Kurt looks morose, tail flicking sharply from side to side.

"Thank you so much, Kurt, Charles moves to transfer to his chair. He never took his nightrobe off, expecting he would need it. "I'm sorry to have disturbed your rest.”

"It's no trouble," Kurt says. He sighs. “I thought we had made friends.”

"Like I've said before, Kurt, these things rarely have anything to do with what you have or haven't done. Our patients come to us because they are troubled.”

Kurt nods unhappily, and vanishes in a puff of smoke.

Charles takes the lift down to the basement, and stops in front of the confinement rooms. He sighs, eyeing the door. He had suspected this would happen, yes, but he had hoped that it wouldn't.

Lehnsherr is showing more emotion than Charles has ever seen from him, pacing the confines of the cell like a caged panther, eyeing each nook and cranny for any sign of weakness.

Charles picks up the microphone and slides the power on until a green LED flashes. Lehnsherr looks up at the source of the static. He cannot see Charles, but Charles can see him.

“Na Lehnsherr. As I told you, we cannot allow any action that might jeopardize the safety of yourself or others. You have been tried and sentenced because of the harm you have already caused. Furthermore, if the security of this institution comes under scrutiny, you will risk the safety of everyone here, and I cannot allow that.”

Lehnsherr turns and looks directly at Charles through the one-way glass. It' s coincidence, of course; it must be familiarity with the glass and a lucky guess. Still, the cold rage directed towards him is unsettling.

"Goodnight. Na Lehnsherr. I will speak with you more tomorrow," Charles finishes, and makes his way back to bed. He does not sleep well, his attention drifting back over and over again to Lehnsherr’s rage.

*

Lehnsherr comes to his office easily enough, no encouragement needed. He sits in the wood chair rather than on the chaise lounge, folds long legs beneath himself, and sits still as a statue.

Then he does nothing else.

"The patient sits facing away from the analyst so they will not feel judged,” Charles soldiers on with his typical introduction.

 _Rather so you can see me, but I can't see you,_ Lehnsherr projects very loudly. Charles wants to respond but knows he cannot.

He tries open-ended questions regarding Lehnsherr’s favorite foods, idle chatter, anything to coax conversation. No avenue of inquiry is successful. At questions regarding his childhood, the surface of Lehnsherr's mind goes blank. Charles starts to suspect he may have learned at some point to shield from low-level telepathic inquiry.

As the hour nears its end, Charles' frustration begins to get the better of him, and he attempts to provoke a reaction.

“Why do you reject your orientation? Are you ashamed of it?"

Lehnsherr snorts, and says nothing.

Charles takes a deep breath.

*

He does not speak at the next session.

Or the next.

The entire first week, he sits in silence every hour, clock ticking as the minutes crawl by.

*

The second week, Charles is wheeling by the washroom when he hears Marie gossiping with Kurt.

“A tattoo! On an omega! That's just strange."

“I have seen tattoos on omegas before,” Kurt responds. "But it was in the circus.”

There can be only one person they are talking about.

“A tattoo?" Charles pauses in the doorway.

Marie flushes. “I didn't see much of it. Just on his arm, when he was in the bath.”

Of course, Charles thinks. It's part of Lehnsherr's therapy that he should be shaved every day, and Lehnsherr cannot be counted on to do it himself. For Marie to do that, and only catch a glimpse-

“What was it of?" Charles asks, wondering if there might be any significance attached to it.

''That was the odd bit," Marie drawled, hand on her hip. “It looked like it was just some numbers.”

Charles froze in place, grip going tight on his handrims. "Yes, very odd. Thank you, Marie.”

“No trouble, Doc," she says, throwing Kurt a questioning look.

Lehnsherr has been returned to the common areas with no incidents thus far, and when Charles visits the living room he is there with the others, staring at the black and white news images flicking across the television screen. When he shifts, his forearm remains facing down, and now that Charles thinks about it he never once saw images of Magneto without his dramatic long-sleeved outfits.

*

It is about halfway through their session when Charles decides to try to bring it up. It isn't as if he has much to lose.

"The nurses don't know what those numbers mean on your arm, and I haven't told them, but I want you to know that I do." Lehnsherr visibly goes tense, but says nothing. "After I was injured and I left British intelligence, I finished my degree at Oxford." That is leaving out quite a bit, but mentioning the long days of near-catatonic grief here would hardly help his authority. "Then I went to Israel to provide counseling to refugees. 

"Good for you," Lehnsherr says coolly, and refuses to speak another word that day no matter what Charles tries.

At the end of the second week, Charles confides in Hank that he worries he is getting nowhere, potentially even stepping backward, no matter what he tries. Unfortunately, for all his brilliance Hank can be a bit hapless, and simply regurgitates the fundamentals of their training.

Charles wants to reach Lehnsherr. He wants him to be able to make friends here, to gain some sense of safety and kindness like the others. He just doesn't know how.

It occurs to him a full day after learning of this obvious tell regarding Lehnsherr's past that it is notable that it was not once reported in the media. Surely they must know, having discovered the omega's identity. That they reported a German surname and let the public draw their own conclusions without any correction can hardly be a coincidence. One portrayal is sympathetic; the other engenders condemnation.

*

Alex Summers, one of the more volatile patients and therefore Charles, gets the call that his brother Scott has manifested on a hot day in July. He takes the call in the hallway off the expansive downstairs library, where Na Lehnsherr has taken to sitting in the window seat with a book.

Charles can feel the spike of panic so strong that he halts his session with Kitty Pryde to wheel as fast as he can to the lift, holding the connection with Alex's mind the entire way. He curses the suppressants in that moment, but it's hardly as if he could have done anything else.

The phone is hanging off the hook, cord bobbing up and down with suspended motion. Na Lehnsherr is standing, watching Mr. Summers warily.

Alex's chest is glowing bright red as he pants, head hanging down, fists clenching and unclenching. He looks up at Charles' approach. There is sweat beading on his forehead.

"Doc," he chokes, “I can't-“

"I'm here, Mr. Summers," he says . "It's alright. You haven't caused anyone any harm. Just calm your mind. He sends a push of calm, but he can sense that it isn't enough.

Alex shakes his head, chest growing brighter. “I can't- I can't get to the bunker. Get out, get out quick-“

Lehnsherr shifts, poised to run, but Charles gives him a quelling look.

“I told you that you can trust me, didn't I, Mr. Summers? I won't let you hurt anyone. Charles puts two fingers to his temple, concentrating hard, and gives a little push. "You just need to calm your mind.”

Control over mutation, like any voluntary bodily function, is seated in the mind. Alex simply lost control of this mental lever. Thankfully, Charles has control to spare.

The glow fades from Alex's chest, and in its wake he is just a distressed young man shaking in the corridor.

“It's Scott. My brother," Alex starts, and Charles nods. “He just- he blew up a pool. Managed not to kill anyone, somehow. But the police've got him and they say he's too dangerous- he's like me, but he can't even open his eyes." He looks down at Charles. “He can't go to prison. He's just, he's such a dweeb-"

Charles meets his gaze. “I’ll see what I can do.” He gives Alex a reassuring smile. “Hank is finding new formulations of suppressants all the time. I’m sure we’ll find something that can help soon. In the meantime, let’s go try making some calls.”

He can feel Lehnsherr's gaze on his back the entire way down the corridor.

*

“You seem to be settling in well enough," Charles says.

He can see the willow tree by the pond swaying in the breeze; he wants nothing more than to be in those cool waters. There is no breeze in this room, the mansion insulated for the climate's harsh winters.

Lehnsherr clears his throat, and Charles almost startles out of his chair.

"You controlled his mind. It isn't a question. A statement. No embellishment.

"Were you concerned, yesterday? I know things looked dire there for a moment, but Alex and I have been working on his control for quite some time, and I promise there is no threat to your safety.”

“That was no small trick, Herr Doctor.”

“We 're not here to talk about me, Charles says calmly. “We 're here to talk about you.”

Lehnsherr flips his chair around to face Charles in one smooth motion. Charles startles backwards, but his hand break is still engaged.

"You're an Alpha-level telepath, at least. Why are you hiding?"

"I,” Charles stutters, “I’m hardly a Beta-level empath, with some minor ability to project words and images. Besides which,"

"You're lying," Lehnsherr cuts him off, eyes narrowed.

They stare at one another, at an impasse, for several long moments. With the return of the silence, Charles realizes this is the most Lehnsherr has ever spoken to him at once.

''I saw you reading T. H. White the other day," Charles ventures. "One of his newer releases, wasn't it? The Once and Future King?"

Lehnsherr stands, turns his chair back around to face away from Charles, and sits back down.

Charles wants to scream with frustration. They'd seemed so close to a breakthrough, for just a moment-

"If you really want to know my thoughts on British fairytales, I'll tell you,” Lehnsherr offers, and Charles can feel himself holding his breath. "But I'll want something in return.”

"Quid pro quo, Na Lehnsherr?" Charles smiles. ''Quite the strategist. What is it that you expect from me?"

''If you answer a question of mine, I will answer one of yours.”

Charles thinks on this for a moment. It's far from protocol, and counter to his training, but his training has not gotten him anywhere with this patient.

"Fair enough, Na Lehnsherr. You may ask your question.”

"Why are you hiding your mutation?"

Charles is glad, in that moment, that Lehnsherr cannot see his expression, as he is sure it would be a dead giveaway. "I am not. Why did you hide your orientation?"

“I did not," Lehnsherr answers.

Charles sighs. "This will not work if you will not be honest with me."

"I agree," Lehnsherr returns. “I gave an honest answer for an honest answer.”

After that, there are five long minutes of silence. Charles scans the room for the thousandth time, hoping to land on something interesting. For a while, he amuses himself counting the squares of the chessboard on the corner table; ivory, obsidian, ivory, obsidian. Covered in a fine layer of dust. It's been a while since he's played, but he used to be quite the competition.

"Na Lehnsherr," he finds himself asking, "do you play chess?"

There is no answer, but that -is hardly surprising. Charles wheels himself over to the table, and blows off the dust. He pushes himself up onto his armrest to retrieve the pieces from the nearby shelf.

"I thought we might try a little game, Charles lines up the pieces. ''We can chat as we like while we play, but the winner gets to ask a question of his opponent with the expectation that it will be answered with full and complete honesty.”

Lehnsherr eyes him as he finishes setting up the pieces, then nods. He stands and carries his chair until he sits opposite Charles at the small table.

“I've played," Lehnsherr confirms, spinning the board so that he has the black.

''Do you agree to my terms?" Charles prompts.

“I agree," Lehnsherr extends his hand across the table, and Charles clasps it in his own. The omega's grip is firm but not overcompensating, and when Charles meets his direct gaze he feels some thrill shiver down his spine. He wonders at the intelligence there, at the calculated weaponization of his mind, and what, if anything, might lie below the surface.

*

Charles advances his pawn, and Lehnsherr follows.

''Do most of your patients find the wheelchair disarming?" Lehnsherr asks.

Charles laughs. "Yes, it can work in my favor. As frustrating as it can be to be -literally looked down on, there are benefits to appearing non-threatening."

"I'm sure you've fooled a great many people," Lehnsherr pressed two fingers to his temple.

"You said you thought I was at least Alpha-level, earlier , Charles moves his knight, then pauses. "Wait," he moves his piece back, then chooses another. "We're not doing touch-move, are we?"

"No. And yes, at least," Lehnsherr nods, answering the first question.

"Right," Charles watches Lehnsherr as he studies the board. “I wonder what you consider to be above Alpha-level.”

Lehnsherr smiles wide, and Charles remembers the photo of his capture, pinned down in the dirt, barracuda grin. "Omega-level. Alpha may be the beginning, but Omega is the end.”

Charles' heart speeds up at the fierce look in Lehnsherr's eyes, the way he leans slightly over the chessboard. He was utterly wrong, he realizes. This is a fighter's grin, wild joy from the rush of adrenaline. Charles can't look away. He's stared at this expression in a photograph for hours at this point, arrested by it somehow, some truth that it holds. Here, in person, with Erik Lehnsherr a living, breathing being sitting before him he can't deny his fascination. It excites him.

Charles clears his throat. “I think our session is ended for today," he looks over at the clock. "I’ll make sure the board isn't disturbed, and we can pick up tomorrow.”

“On your honor, Doctor Xavier," Lehnsherr smiles, and Charles shivers. It's the first time Na Lehnsherr has said his name.

*

Charles has one of his sessions with Hank that evening, and they spend most of the time talking about Scott's arrival and first session. Hank frets that Scott has taken to calling him bozo, and Charles reassures him that Scott is attempting to regain control in an unfamiliar environment after the trauma of his manifestation. He must keep his eyes covered at all times and is unused to this loss of sensory input; he must be led around to every part of the house, and has little means of distraction. Hank will start trying Scott on multiple formulations of suppressants but worries he will encounter the same problem he has with Alex, risking Scott’s body temperature dropping dangerously low.

There are only a few minutes left in the session for Charles to speak, but he feels he must. He tells Hank about his breakthrough with Lehnsherr, and Hank congratulates him, but Charles shakes his head.

"I’m meant to be treating him, but he questions me at every turn. He's passionate, convicted. He has no desire to change his habits. The entire situation involves him humoring me at best while he smirks behind my back. I should be angry. I should be attempting to maintain the distinction of doctor and patient. But I can't help but be fascinated by how articulate, how intelligent he is.”

Hank is staring at Charles, looking a bit shocked. It's rare that Charles has any problems of note to work through, and he certainly doesn't normally rant like this, but he can't seem to stop the words from spilling out.

“I originally thought there might be some trauma that led him to deny his orientation, perhaps in his childhood, but from what I’ve learned of him I've come to doubt that is the case. If it were, I feel sure that he would have his own insight into it. I feel as if I want to ask him his own reasoning on the matter rather than convince him to confront his sickness- I.” Charles wipes his hands on his trouser legs. “I don't feel certain of anything.

Hank swallows. "Well," he reasons, "it's only your first day with him speaking. I'm sure you'll regain control. Any patient that raises a challenge hopes that their analyst will rise above it, even if they aren't consciously aware of the conflict.”

Charles should have expected this answer, of course, but he feels oddly disappointed by it. “Of course Hank, you're right," Charles gives him a smile. “I expect I'm just being silly. But who could blame me, after a break in several weeks' long silence!”

Hank smiles back, relieved. "No problem, Doctor.

*

Charles wins the first match, but he's been given a good fight for it. Lehnsherr looks disgruntled, but concedes with grace. ''When did you start hiding your orientation?"

“I never hid it.”

Charles opens his mouth in protest, but Lehnsherr waves it away. "I'm true to my word, doctor. I never did. I dressed and behaved as I felt the situation called for. Because I was not trussed up," he growls, "and forced to rid my entire body of hair like I am a child, others made assumptions. I was candid with those closest to me when the topic became relevant." He smiled. "Like when we wanted to fuck.”

Charles swallows. He's comfortable discussing sexual matters, of course; the founder of his field believed that nearly every psychological problem was sexual in origin, and this particular patient's antisocial behavior concerns his sex. He's only a bit... startled.

"When did others begin to assume?" Charles manages.

Lehnsherr looks out the window, off into the grounds. "The refugee camps. After the liberation of Auschwitz 

"You were held in Auschwitz?" Charles says, with some dawning horror.

Lehnsherr makes a tsking sound, and resets the board. "I’ve answered your question, Doctor. The next time it will be my turn.”

*

"I thought he was frigid," Charles rolls his wheels back and forth in small movements while Hank watches. "Likely a virgin. It would be consistent with antisocial.”

“He’s… not?" Hank ventures, looking uncomfortable.

"Oh, absolutely not,” Charles grips the handrim, halting. "Very much not. In fact, I question the diagnosis at all.”

"He has orientation confusion," Hank points out. "Either it's antisocial, or some form of psychosis."

"Hmm," Charles says.

*

"What do you think of your diagnosis?" Charles asks, sliding his bishop across the board.

Lehnsherr raises an eyebrow. "Are you referring to the ones they gave at trial?"

"Yes," Charles folds his hands on his lap .

"Bullshit,” Lehnsherr says simply, advancing his rook.

"That can't really be the extent of your thoughts on the matter.

“I am a killer," Lehnsherr says, and a shiver runs down Charles' spine at the matter-of-fact words. "But I never wanted it to be argued that I was mentally unsound.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. "Not even to avoid prison?"

Lehnsherr does not make his move, pauses to look at Charles directly. "This is a prison, Doctor. Your benevolence does not change the fact that you rob me of my freedom as surely as other Doctors have."

Charles can hear the pointed emphasis on Doctors, the German pronunciation. He chooses not to react defensively, but to wait and see if Lehnsherr has more to say.

"Antisocial was a term the Nazis used, were you aware?"

Charles shakes his head.

“Yes,” Lehnsherr makes his move at last. "The black triangle. Thieves and killers. Those who would not reproduce the Aryan race. Aryans who engaged in intercourse with Jews.”

Charles is silent. There is nothing he can say.

“I think the Americans now use the word to mean something that makes them uncomfortable. That threatens Omegas going back to the homes where they belong, and Alphas taking over the jobs they left to go to war.”

"The use of the term among psychologists predates the war.”

"Yes," Lehnsberr agrees. "Much of the Nazi science of race cleansing was invented in America.”

"That isn't true," Charles says immediately.

"No?" Lehnsherr raises an eyebrow. “So the Americans don't use this word to label me because they are uncomfortable? Then why do you order your attendants to shave my body so you can pretend I am not an adult?"

Charles is losing his footing in this conversation. He knows there is an order to these things; it is common sense, the natural inclinations and styles of an omega as counterpart to an alpha. The sexes are dichotomous, save for the null lines of betas and nature's occasional mistake. Or small aberrations, on either side of the line.

"It's your move," Lehnsherr points out.

"Sorry," Charles says, picking a pawn and moving it forward. "I'm not uncomfortable.”

"Oh, then you will let my body be as nature intended?" Lehnsherr replies, humor in his tone.

"Yes," Charles says, and Lehnsherr looks up. He can't blame him; he's surprised himself. ''I’ll tell them to stop. It's standard therapeutic practice for orientation confusion, but that diagnosis clearly does not encapsulate your experience. There's no need to continue.”

Lehnsherr gives him a wary look, as if waiting for the catch, or the laughter that will revoke the decision. "Check.”

Charles looks down at the board, dismayed. He moves his king out of check, but he can see that he's beaten. With a sigh, he flicks his king down. "What's your question?"

“When did you start taking suppressants?"

Charles sighs, hands going unconsciously to squeeze at his thighs. “While I was recovering from the injury to my spine. It was... a difficult time.”

"You said you worked for British intelligence?"

Charles nods. “I was in Oxford during the Blitz. I wanted to sign up immediately, do my part. I was recruited to intelligence because of my telepathy," he looks down at the chessboard. "Not that even they knew the full extent of it. Might have locked me up rather than hired me. My sister," he stops, starts again. "Had been living with me at Oxford. She was a fighter. Saw no reason why she shouldn't join as well. As soon as intelligence learned she was a shapeshifter, they wanted her.”

''A shapeshifter?” Lehnsherr asks, interested.

Charles nods. "She could imitate anyone. Even their voice. But her natural form was a brilliant blue, like the color of Kurt's skin. I think the both of you would have gotten along,” he chuckles. “She took every opportunity to be in her blue form. 'Mutant and proud', she said."

Lehnsherr nods. “I would have been privileged to meet her.”

Charles swallows. "The trouble was, she was a brilliant operative. Gained some notoriety among the Nazis. They had no way to catch her, except in her natural form. And when she was knocked unconscious, she always reverted.”

"Doctor Xavier," Lehnsherr says, his tone oddly gentle, "why did you start taking suppressants?"

Charles shakes his head. “I'm afraid that is a different question for a different winning game, my friend.”

*

When Charles passes Na Lehnsherr in the library now he nods in greeting, but the omega always drifts back to staring out at the grounds, as if he is waiting for something. 

*

''Why did you become a killer?"

Lehnsherr pauses and looks up from his examination of the chess board, as if deciding whether this is a question he will answer without a win from Charles. ''It had to be done, and my hands were capable." He moves his pawn. “I don't regret anyone I've killed. They were Nazi butchers and torturers."

Charles can feel his expression betray him at the word torturers and knows at once that Lehnsherr has seen it.

"Klaus Schmidt- Sebastian Shaw. He killed my mother. He tortured me. So I killed him more slowly.”

Charles feels a shiver at the cool rage Lehnsherr is projecting, the way the feeling warms him from his belly to his toes. It frightens him. “I don't blame you. I might have done the same.”

Lehnsherr shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

"You don't know what I can do,” Charles says simply. “Check"

Lehnsherr curses under his breath, staring at the board. He moves his king away.

Charles chases.

"Checkmate,” Charles knocks Lehnsherr's king over. “Why did you allow others to assume you were an Alpha or a Beta?"

Lehnsherr shrugs. "Why limit myself to half my potential? I knew I could fight, and I could lead.” He paused. “I never thought, though, that if I mentioned it in a broadcast," he smiles, reminiscing, “that I would lose my followers.”

"You didn't think so?"

Lehnsherr shakes his head. “The CIA was delighted when they tore off my pants. They thought that as soon as they published the headlines it would discredit me. That when they made me up for court the movement would fall apart. I would appear weak, a charlatan to be laughed at by humans and Alphas.

“I see,” Charles leans back against his chair.

"They underestimated the determination of our people to seize their freedom," Lehnsherr smiles, and there it is again, that barracuda smile that sends a thrill through his body, makes his pulse quicken. “We are gaining followers. The news broadcasts can only spin so much. Every day I am imprisoned here, I serve as a martyr.”

Lehnsherr takes one look at Charles, and his grin widens. Charles shivers.

"Do I frighten you, Doctor Xavier?" 

“No,” Charles replies, softer than he'd intended. More honest than he'd meant to be.

Lehnsherr looks away and laughs, as if to himself, shakes his head. “I see.”

*

Charles comes from his session with Hank towards the dinner table when he sees Na Lehnsherr still sitting in the library, staring at the window. As fall begins to claim the maples with vivid crimson, the days grow shorter. Already, it is nearly dark.

Charles wheels until he has stopped beside Lehnsherr. They look out at the grounds together for a moment, and it is a companionable silence, without hostility.

“What is it that you are waiting for?" Charles asks.

“I am used to action. To doing. Not watching the world go by."

"As it happens, Charles leans his cheek onto his fist, elbow propped by his arm rest, ''I have a task I could use some help with.”

Lehnsherr turns to look at him, quizzical.

"Hank and I have tried every formulation of suppressant we know of thus far and have not been able to help Mr. Scott. Hank is working on some new formulations, but the process takes time. I thought we could use a new set of eyes. A different perspective.”

Lehnsherr is staring at him. "You want me to assist in your research.”

"Yes,” Charles nods.

“I’ll have to think about it," Lehnsherr says.

*

Na Lehnsherr now takes a run around the grounds every morning, even in the bitter cold. He has taken to wearing casual pants and soft flannel shirts that he seems to have found in one of the manor's many long-abandoned closets. The shift dresses have disappeared, possibly burned in the library fireplace; in any case, no one has commented on the change.

Charles watches him run, sometimes, long legs lean and powerful, chest heaving as he pushes himself further and faster every day. Always, Lehnsherr gazes out over the grounds, towards the fence, waiting for a sign.

*

"He's hardly trained," Hank says skeptically.

"Hank," Charles says, exasperated, "how many research assistants have come to us trained? This is how they learn. Plus, at this point it certainly can't hurt," He raises an eyebrow at Hank's flowchart scrawled over the surface of the butcher paper, each permutation crossed off with a large red X.

Lehnsherr has been staring at the butcher paper with a frown, as if trying to memorize the chemical equations.

"What do you think, Na Lehnsherr?" Charles prompts.

"You can't come to a correct conclusion from an incorrect premise," Lehnsherr says absently.

"Pardon?" Hank gapes.

"You’re working from the framework of cure, but Scott Summers does not have an illness. He has a gift. And gifts should be fostered, given instruction." 

"The boy shoots laser beams out of his eyes!" Hank exclaims.

"One moment, my friend,” Charles raises a hand at Hank. "Say what you mean, Na Lehnsherr.”

Lehnsherr looks directly at Hank. "Have you even tried to give him something that will help him to channel his ability? To gain voluntary control? Or have you only tried to take it from him?" 

“I hardly see the point!” Hank protests. "That boy is a walking bomb!”

"And you would make that decision for him," Lehnsherr growls, "even though he has never given you reason to believe he wishes to go on a rampage."

“I,” Hank chokes, and looks at Charles. "Doctor Xavier, you can't possibly agree- this is insane!”

''Is what Na Lehnsherr is saying feasible, Hank? Have you ever considered such a device?”

"No," Hank spreads his hands, "because it would be irresponsible."

“Would it?" Charles says lightly, cocking his head. "Surely it wouldn't hurt to investigate alternatives that could increase Mr. Scott's functionality and everyone's safety.”

"Well," Hank looks between them, "yes, I can try. But I won't stop my work on the cure. I think I'm getting close.”

Lehnsherr's face goes stony at this, but Charles heads him off before he can murder Hank.

"It's just an expression. We don't have the tools to change genetic expression permanently. Not yet, anyway. Hank is working on a serum that conceals visible mutations at a certain concentration in the bloodstream.”

Lehnsherr does not look much mollified, but he also does not murder Hank.

*

Lehnsherr knocks over Charles' king; the magnet makes a soft click as it hits the board. In the grey light of the mist outside, his eyes are dark and serious.

“Why did you start taking suppressants?"

Charles runs a hand through his hair, then wheels over to his desk and produces a bottle of amber colored liquid and a glass.

''Would you like some brandy?"

Lehnsherr nods, and Charles pours him some in the glass. He takes the bottle for himself.

"Like I said, it was a difficult time, after the… incident. I spent quite a while recuperating.”

"You lost your sister."

Charles closes his eyes. 

"Yes.”

“How?”

Charles laughs. "That’s another question.”

"It's an answer to the first," Lehnsherr says. “And you’ve already evaded this question once. Answer honestly, or you break our agreement.” 

Charles thinks idly that the soft flannel fits him; he fills it out well. More importantly, he looks comfortable, relaxed. He takes a drink. "The Nazis killed her. But they tortured her first." He drinks again. ''We were given bad intel. Sold out before we even started. They got me first with a bullet in the back. The pain was excruciating. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I saw it in their minds. What they'd done to her. When I say I nearly went mad with grief," he swallows. “When they tossed my body back to the British government, it was like they'd given them my head in a box. All I could see were images of what my baby sister had suffered through, maybe hoping all the while that I would come to save her." He wiped the back of a hand across his cheek. "She was all I had in the world. The only person who ever truly loved me."

Lehnsherr sits silently, watching. Not uncomfortable, like Hank might have been. But not interrupting.

"The more that time went on, the more I lost control of my telepathy. All I could hear was the suffering of thousands of voices. I couldn't shut them out. I wanted to die. But we'd promised each other- because I'd always assumed I would die for her- that if one of us died the other had to keep on living. I thought about what Raven would want me to do, and I,” he looked around the room, out at the grounds. "I've tried my best. I really have." He took another sip of the brandy. “I took the suppressants so I could sleep. So I could try to live.”

Charles lets his gaze wander back over to Lehnsherr, and the look on his face is one he's never seen there before. Raw, undeniable empathy. He reaches a hand across the table, over the fallen chess pieces, and squeezes Charles' hand, warm and firm.

"Have you ever told anyone that before?"

"Yes," Charles says. And he has, to the distant analysts who sat behind him and let him shake and sob without judgment.

"But not like this," Lehnsherr says, certain. "You said she was all you had in the world. You were left alone to grieve."

The pain is so sharp and intense that it shocks him, and when he opens his mouth to say _yes_ he can barely choke out the reply.

"Charles,” Lehnsherr says, standing. "Shh, sheifale, I’m sorry." He presses Charles' head into the side of his hip and strokes his hair for a few long minutes, making comforting noises.

Charles pulls away, flushing, wiping his cardigan sleeve over his face. “I’m sorry, I don't know what came over me."

"You don't need to apologize," Lehnsherr says. "You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

It's sincere, direct, his comfort exactly like everything else Lehnsherr does, and Charles is grateful.

*

"Has anyone seen Hank?" Charles passes the living room, where everyone is gathered around the television.

“No,” they chorus.

Charles is about to hurry on, but pauses when he sees the screen. There is an image of picketers, some obviously mutant, with signs that read FREE MAGNETO. The caption reads CAMPUS UNREST.

Charles stands at the back of the room, listening to the talking heads.

"I'm sick of this s-,” the recording bleeps. "Someone should put that bitch in his place, make an example of him. That would shut these kids up.” 

Images of the trial roll across the screen; Charles feels uncomfortable looking at the pictures of Lehnsherr shaved smooth, made up and in that confining, starched outfit. He must have hated it. It feels wrong to look at the pictures.

"Oh, look," Sean Cassidy says as the headline MUTANT TERRORIST APPREHENDED flashes across the screen. "It's your favorite.”

Lehnsherr bares his teeth. “I prefer the term Freedom Fighter."

"Ahh,” Sean throws a potato chip at his head.

"Doctor Xavier?" Marie says, her tone indicating that this is not the first time she has tried to get his attention.

"Last I heard, Hank was in his lab. Been down there for a while.”

"Thank you, Marie," Charles says, and wheels to the lift.

*

“Not now!" Hank calls through the door.

"Don't be absurd, just let me in," Charles frowns.

“I’ll talk later, ok? I've almost finished a prototype for Scott's glasses." Charles tries knocking again, but to no avail.

*

"When you look out at the grounds, you're waiting for something. Waiting to get out of here."

"Yes," Lehnsherr says.

"What will you do, when you get out?" Charles says, drawing his cardigan closer around him. The first snow is falling outside, the grounds and sky washed in white, a peaceful hush settling.

“I will take action towards mutant liberation," he says simply.

"If you continue as you have, they will kill you." “Then I will be a martyr.”

Their games are moving more slowly now. They are not angling to get information out of one another; it is more of an excuse than anything, to continue to share this time together.

“So your plan is to die."

Lehnsherr shrugs. "If that is necessary, then yes. I have no wish to."

Charles looks out at the falling snow. "You haven't tried once to escape here since your first night. Why?"

“I decided to stay. I am doing much more for the cause here as a martyr than I could possibly do free.” Lehnsherr looks out at the grounds, following Charles' gaze. "But the time is coming. I'm not meant to live out my days in a cage, no matter how gilded. You know that, Charles.”

''You keep calling me by my first name.”

"When you realized I wasn't sick, you ceased being my doctor."

Charles looks over to meet his gaze. “And if you could live, instead of go out there and throw yourself down on the metaphorical altar. What would you do?"

Lehnsherr leans in over the chessboard, elbows on the table, and cups Charles' jaw in one strong hand. He lingers there a moment, brushing his thumb over the jawline. “I would enjoy being alive,” he replies, and dips his head to press his lips to Charles'.

They're warm, and surprisingly soft. Deft fingers thread through the hair at the back of Charles' neck and Charles moans.

"Erik," he pleads, and Erik takes advantage of his parted lips. It feels wonderful, sad and a little desperate. Charles reaches for him, afraid to let him go.

The chess pieces scatter to the ground, and Charles has the stray thought that they will be hell to pick up later, but then Erik is sliding into his lap, hands warm on Charles' shoulders, and Charles clutches him closer.

*

That night at dinner, Hank reappears.

He is covered in fur from head to toe, and he is entirely blue.

"The cure didn't work," Hank says dully. ''It seems to have had the effect of enhancing visible mutations, instead.”

There is a pregnant pause, which is broken by Erik clearing his throat. "Never looked better, Doctor McCoy.”

Hank growls, fur bristling. "Don’t mock me.” Each word carries the threat clear in Hank's body.

Erik raises his hands. "I wasn't," he says, tone firm.

"Yeah,” Scott breaks the tension. “Soundin’ pretty good, bozo. Might start having to call you Beast."

Hank sits down next to him at the table and spoons out a small mountain of spaghetti.

“I've finished the prototype for your glasses. You can test them out tomorrow." Scott turns toward him, mouth dropping open beneath his bandages. "Really?"

''No promises. It’ll probably need adjustments, at least."

Scott smiles. "Thanks, Beast.”

*

"Oh, god," Charles moans, head tipping back on the chaise lounge that none of his patients choose to use, thank god.

“Yeah?" Erik says, looking up from Charles' nipple, pink and wet with saliva.

“Yes,” Charles gasps.

“Hm,” Erik says, and rubs his cock against Charles' thigh while Charles tries desperately to muffle his moans with his hand. He can't help it; it's been a while, a long while, since he's slept with anyone, and Erik is so eager and enthusiastic. His touch is everywhere, his scent sharp with arousal, and Charles wants to fuck him more than he's ever wanted to fuck anyone.

Erik's head peeks up, pupils dilated, and Charles realizes he might have been projecting.

''Is that- can," Erik trails off.

"Yes," Charles pulls him back in to feel the hard line of Erik's arousal, the scent of his enjoyment. "But it helps to speed things along to have a bit more, um, direct stimulation.”

“Right,” Erik says, and pulls Charles' trousers down. He squeezes Charles through his boxers, and Charles makes a punched-out noise at the sight, the pressure just enough for him to feel it.

"Please tell me you brought a condom," Erik pulls down his boxers, and starts stroking Charles' erection.

“Yes,” Charles flushes. I didn't mean to presume- we can take it slower, if you'd like.”

“Charles," Erik says, looking half-mad, his hair sticking up in tufts where Charles has pulled at it, "you gave me a roommate who is extra sensitive to sonic vibration. I'm hardly able to jerk off when I bathe, because this house is ancient and full of bathtubs, and there are always nurses flitting about. I think if you don't let me have your cock right now I might actually go mad.

"Oh,” Charles blinks.

"Think about it later, fuck me now. Condom?"

"Top left desk drawer," Charles says, fisting his cock. He's already started to lose his erection with the lack of attention, but by the time Erik gets back and has the wrapper open, he's hard enough to slide the condom down. Erik kicks his own underwear off and lowers his body own Charles' sliding down until his mouth is covering Charles' cock.

"Ah!" Charles cries out, covering his mouth a second too late. He runs one hand up and down his torso, pausing to rub over his nipples. Erik pulls off his cock and sticks two fingers in his mouth, smiling when he sees Charles rubbing the side of his face on the lounge like a cat.

"You're the most absurd sensualist,” Erik says, rubbing wet fingers between his legs, pressing down on his perineum.

"AH!” Charles gasps. "Stop, stop."

"Too much?" Erik withdraws his fingers.

"If you want me to fuck you, yes,” Charles squeezes the base of his cock.

"Yeah?" Erik looks delighted. "That' s right. I bet you'd love being fucked.”

Charles freezes, shocked. “What-“

Erik leans down and kisses him, pulls back an inch away from his nose. "Charles, if you say something like 'omegas coming from penile stimulation is immature' or use the words 'arrested development' and kill the mood, I might have to murder you.”

“I won't do that, then," Charles smiles, and leans up to kiss him again.

Erik sits up, grasps Charles' cock in his hand, and Charles realizes what he's doing a second before he does it.

"Are you sure you're r-“ Charles starts, then Erik claps a hand over his mouth. It's a good decision, because Charles _screams_.

Erik lowers himself onto Charles' prick in one smooth, wet glide. He's looking up at the ceiling, gasping in breaths, a high-pitched moan coloring every inhalation. He looks back down at Charles to check in, cheeks flushed. He braces his hands on Charles' chest as he starts to move, chasing his pleasure, lips parted in a soft o. He licks his lips, and it's the most mesmerizing thing Charles has ever seen.

"Charles," Erik says hoarsely, "can you?" He projects an image of Charles on top, and Charles nods.

He leans on the hip he still occasionally has some control over and lets the other leg slide out beneath him, grasping the top of the lounge for leverage. Erik pushes his body beneath his and spreads his legs, wrapping one calf up around Charles' body. He's much leaner than Charles, smaller than him in some ways as Charles' body covers him and he presses back inside.

Erik groans in pleasure, clenching around Charles' cock. "Like you mean it, Xavier.”

Charles speeds up the pace, fucking him hard and with little finesse, so that anyone could hear the slap of flesh on flesh.

“No," Erik" eyes open, and he places his hand on Charles' lower back, guiding him into a rhythm. "Like you mean it.”

"Oh," Charles says, slowing down. Listening to Erik's breathing, when his breath hitches like what he's doing feels good. When he squirms, rubbing his back against the lounge, wanting more. He's playing with the tip of his own prick, occasionally stroking it, biting his lip red.

Suddenly, his eyes fly open wide. "Yes," he clutches at Charles, eyes falling shut again and a line creasing between his brows. "Yes, yes, yes," he gasps, thighs trembling. Charles can feel sweat falling down his forehead as he fucks Erik faster.

"Charles," Erik moans, running a hand over the straining muscle of Charles' shoulder. He clenches down, hard, with a soft noise like a growl, and tips his head back to expose his throat. Charles leans down to suck down the line of the exposed tendon and Erik makes a noise like a sob as it lasts and lasts, his entire body trembling, until at last he gives a long sigh and goes limp.

"Oh, thank god,” Erik sighs, then laughs. He shuffles over to the side, trying to give Charles somewhere to lie.

Erik lays there and pants for a moment, kissing Charles' neck lazily while Charles jerks himself off. Then he groans and rolls himself into Charles’ side, hand insinuating itself between them to grasp and release the swelling base.

Charles comes like that, their bodies pressed warmly together, Erik smiling against his chest.

*

"Ok, you can open your eyes. Charles positions Scott, then pauses. "Wait,” he turns him away from his favorite tree, an ancient oak planted by his grandfather.

"Now?” Scott says, eyes shut tight behind red lenses.

"Now," Charles says. Hank takes a few steps backward, and Erik looks wary, ready to pull Charles away.

There's a pause, the grey winter light making for a hazy midday and a frigid wait.

“Uh, you can open your eyes now," Hank says.

"I did," Scott says, and turns to them, beaming. He gives a loud whoop that startles Hank, and looks around at the grounds. "You did it, Beast!”

Hank smiles self-consciously. "It was pretty straightforward, once I knew what I was looking for." He gives Erik a look.

"Well done, my friend," Erik claps him on the shoulder.

Hank flushes, clearly overwhelmed by all the attention. ''If you ever need to channel it," he addresses Scott, "like if you're feeling it building up, or something, you just need to push this button," he points to the right edge of the glasses, "It'll channel the beam. The button has a safety, to prevent anyone from pressing it accidentally.

Charles reaches out to squeeze Erik's hand, surreptitious. “We couldn't have done it without you.

Erik shakes his head. "You could have. You just needed to see the possibility.”

*

"You're missing one of your senses too, my friend," Erik says, advancing his knight. "Just as surely as Scott's eyes.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. He can hear the shuffle of Erik's feet on the other side of the table. “I still have my telepathy.”

Erik shakes his head. "Do you? Do you even know the barest extent you are capable of? How can you know what that might feel like, to be so deeply connected with the world around you, when you've suppressed it for so long?"

“I remember what it feels like," Charles bites out. His bishop slips in his sweating palm.

"You're not the same person you were then," Erik watches him. "You're more grounded, stronger. You should not have to fear what you are. You have a wondrous gift. You should embrace it.”

Charles shakes his head. “No,” he says, ending the conversation. “I can't. And you can’t ask it of me."

For a while, they continue to play in silence, studying the board, maneuvering.

"Is that what it's like for you?" it occurs to Charles. "That you've lost one of your senses? Like the suppressants are blinding you from the world around you?" 

"Yes," Erik says simply, and moves his pawn.

*

Charles orders Marie to taper the suppressants that night, despite her wide-eyed shock and reflexive refusal.

“If he tries to harm anyone, I can stop him," he reassures her, knowing Erik will do no such thing. Charles is not naive- he knows that when Erik makes a goal, nothing will stand in the way of it. But that is not Erik's plan, and he will not forgo it in the eleventh hour.

*

Charles gets the call just after the new year. He is flushed with laughter when Kurt calls him over. They've been taking down the decorations Scott put up a few weeks back, salvaged from a box he'd found in the attic.

“Hello?" Charles smiles into the receiver.

"Charles,” a female voice says on the other end of the line, sighing with what sounds like relief. Her voice is thick, as if she's ill. "It's so good to hear your voice." 

“I'm sorry," he frowns, “who is this?”

"Gabrielle Haller. You wouldn't remember me-“

"Gabrielle," he says, softening his voice. “Of course I remember you. How are you?”

''I have something to tell you, she says.

*

Charles puts the phone back onto the hook and wheels out of the corridor, into the library, numb.

Erik is sitting in the window seat, watching him.

"Oh hello, Erik," Charles says reflexively.

Erik stands, placing his book down and walking Over to sit in the chair next to Charles. ''Is everything alright?" Is someone in trouble?" 

“I have a son," Charles says.

Erik's eyebrows shoot up. "Mazel tov.”

Charles shakes his head. "No, you don't understand. He's a telepath, like me. He lets out a shaky breath. ''He's already testing Alpha level. He's only 10."

“Incredible," Erik says, sincere.

Charles laughs, a harsh sound. "Gabrielle is so worried. I couldn't offer her any comfort. She's worried what they’ll do with him, and so am I.”

"Your son shouldn't have to live in fear of persecution," Erik replies, a hint of anger in his tone. Not, Charles can feel, directed toward him. "He should not have to vivisect and smother his gifts to appease the fears of others."

Charles looks up, and realizes they have an audience, crowded in the doorway. He looks at them, confused.

“I think you were projecting, a bit," Hank answers his unspoken question, shuffling in place as if unsure whether to come forward.

''Oh," Charles flushes. "I’m fine.” He rebuilds his mental shields; he ought to go back on the stronger formulation of suppressant, now that things are relatively under control. He gives the small crowd a weak smile, and they disperse.

Erik frowns at him.

"What?" Charles asks, disconcerted by that gaze.

"Would you teach your son to be afraid of himself?"

Charles looks at him, shocked. He turns s and wheels away. “I'll see you at dinner, Erik."

That night, Charles stares at his bottle of short-acting suppressants and wonders. What David, his son, my god, he has a son- is feeling right now. How alone he must feel. Whether David would want to ask him for guidance, lost at sea in a cacophony of millions of voices.

Charles opens the bottle and flushes the pills down the toilet.

*

Erik advances his pawn with a pleased smile, fingers flexing. He does not need to touch it. Charles does not comment.

Several more moves in, Erik raises an eyebrow at Charles, knocking over his rook.

"Bugger,” Charles worries his lip, looking at the mess of the board. "I'm sorry, my friend, I'm having trouble concentrating today."

Erik sighs, watching Charles tap his fingers against the table, staring out the window.

“I feel as if I want to go for a run," Charles says to himself. “Maybe I ought to try the rowing machine.”

Erik shakes his head, sighing again. "Back up," he orders.

“Alright,” Charles says, puzzled. "Oh," he says when Erik goes to his knees, sliding under the table. He settles himself between Charles' legs, hands moving up from his ankles, to his calves, to his thumbs running along the inseam of his trousers. It's a lovely image, even if Charles can’t entirely feel it.

"Relax," Erik says, untucking Charles' shirt from his trousers and popping the button there, kissing the exposed skin of his belly.

"Ok, '' Charles agrees, leaning back as Erik unzips his fly without the use of his hands and mouths at Charles' cock through his boxers.

Charles can feel it, he realizes, how much Erik is enjoying this. The masculine scent of him here, the way it relaxes him, the association with sex and pleasure. When Erik tastes him Charles can taste the sharp, salty burst over his tongue. Erik is smiling; he can feel it too, Charles' pleasure projected back to him.

Charles relaxes into it, the soft, wet sounds of his mouth on Charles' cock, Erik’s fingers moving to touch his balls, stroke just behind them. It goes on like this for a while, not quite enough to get him off, and he is a bit dazed when Erik pauses, kisses his belly.

''You can say no," Erik ventures, keeping his fingers stroking behind Charles’ balls, brushing over his hole with a sensation that makes him gasp. He projects an image that sets Charles’ heart to pounding. "But I think you'd enjoy it.”

"You certainly seem to," Charles laughs, covering his nervousness.

“I do," Erik says, not laughing. His finger rubs over Charles' hole, slick with saliva, just shy of pressing in. “I think you should know what it feels like to be penetrated. Most alphas never truly give themselves over to another person. Too frightened to do anything but maintain their position over others. I think it makes them lonely.”

Charles stares at him, astonished. “My friend, what I wouldn't do to have a look inside your mind. Wherever do you come up with these things you say?"

"You can have a look, if you want," Erik shrugs. "But another time. Right now, I want you to go lie down on the lounge.”

Charles swallows, feels the nervousness bubble up within him. He wants to make a joke of it, to see if Erik will laugh and show his ruse.

"Alright," he says, and wheels over to the couch. They've draped a blanket over it now; necessity, given the weather, and the preservation of the fabric beneath. When Charles slides his trousers and underwear off his ankles and lies down on his belly, it's very soft. He's shaking, just a little; he tells himself it's the cold.

"Shh," Erik's warm palm runs down his back. “I won't hurt you. There's no need to be nervous. Do you have any lotion?" he looks around the room.

"Jar of vaseline, on the shelf,” Charles gestures. It gets dry in the winter, with the heater on.

Erik takes his time, laying atop him to kiss the back of his neck and down his spine, reaching a hand beneath him to stroke his erection until Charles is squirming against the blanket. He can feel Erik's cock pressed between his cheeks, sensation fleeting but his entire nervous system focused on it.

"Spread your legs," Erik orders, and Charles reaches down to comply, pulling a knee up to expose himself. He buries his face in the blanket, as if he can possibly hide any part of himself right now.

"Shh," Erik presses kisses into his hair, fingers rubbing slickly at his cleft.

Charles lets out a deep breath, trying to force himself to relax when he feels one finger pressing at his entrance. It slips in, easy as anything. It feels… odd.

"Beautiful," Erik murmurs, moving in and out with just the one finger. Another finger presses at Charles' perineum, and he gasps.

''That's right,” Erik says, rubbing a second finger at his hole and pressing in. This time it's a bit more of a stretch, but Erik distracts him with a nip to his shoulder.

Erik keeps his fingers moving in and out, in and out in a steady rhythm. "Alright?" he kisses Charles' neck.

"Alright,” Charles agrees, getting used to it. He wonders if Erik wants to replace fingers with cock, now. He's been patient enough with Charles. But he isn't sure that he's ready.

"Stop thinking," Erik says, and Charles can feel the smile on the back of his neck. "Just feel.”

With Erik's body atop him and his panted breaths, Charles feels warm now. There's a pressure building up in his balls, and it makes the fingers inside him feel good. He shifts, wanting something more, and Erik crooks his fingers.

"This?" Erik asks, as Charles gasps.

“Ohh,” Charles muffles a moan into the blanket, pressing back onto Erik's fingers. He's trembling again, this time with want, a hunger so deep and desperate he doesn't know how he couldn't have known this about his body before.

"Please,” Charles says, projecting an image of Erik's fingers lubricating his cock, pressing in. ''I want it, fuck me-“

Erik groans, and Charles can hear the wet slide of the vaseline as Erik strokes his cock, lines up, and presses in.

Charles feels panic; it's so much larger than Erik's fingers, and there's so much pressure- but before he can tell him to stop, Erik has pulled back, just the tip pressing at his entrance.

“I told you, I won't hurt you," Erik says, letting go of his own cock and reaching beneath Charles to stroke his own flagging erection. "Trust me.”

"It's alright," Charles says, forcing himself to relax. “I'm fine."

"Hmm," Erik says, stroking his erection a while longer.

"I'm ready," Charles says. "Just go slow.”

Erik presses the tip of his cock against Charles' hole for what seems like an eternity; there is the tinkle of an ice storm against the window, but Charles feels warm, trying to press back against Erik's cock until finally the head is in.

"Oh," Charles says, getting used to the sensation.

“Alright?” Erik checks.

“Yes,” Charles says, feeling himself relaxing. He'd been so anxious, he hadn't even realized, and this- it's a bit of a stretch, but it doesn't hurt. It surprises him.

Erik feels him relax, too, because he groans and pushes further in, and suddenly he's all the way in, balls pressed against Charles' entrance. It's so much, to be filled like this, the pressure of Erik inside him, stretching him open.

"Move,” Charles gasps, and Erik complies immediately, as if he's just been waiting for the word- and he probably has been, poor thing, with all that Charles has made him wait.

Erik shifts, changes his angle, and Charles is crying out into the blanket, hands gripping at the plush fabric, gasping in breaths. Erik manages to get a hand back under Charles and stroke him off in time with his thrusts, and it only takes a few strokes before Charles is coming, overwhelmed. His body goes limp with satiation, and he barely hears it when Erik comes with a choked- off whimper just below his ear.

They lay there a moment in the near dark, ice tinkling against the window, their breathing slowing until it is in unison. Charles can feel the absence when Erik pulls out, and he reaches down to feel the come trickling out of his hole, speechless.

Erik pulls the long edges of the blanket close and tugs it over them both. He pulls Charles to him as close as he can, and they drift off together, limbs loose and breathing contentment.

*

The next week it snows so heavily that John has to melt the overnight accumulation to water before they can open the door.

Charles can feel it coming. The snow is keeping it at bay, but once it melts it won't be much longer. He takes to talking to Erik with their bodies pressed together, clothes on, blanket atop them.

"If you weren't a martyr,” Charles says, "and you lived, what would you build?"

“I’ve never thought I would live that long,” Erik dismisses.

"But if you did," Charles presses.

Erik sighs, and smoothes back the long bangs from Charles' face. "What would you build for your son?"

Charles considers this, only somewhat surprised. Charles has been talking to David on the phone; they've spoken about it, and Erik has offered advice, which Charles has sometimes chosen to take and other times to ignore. “I would want somewhere he could be safe, and happy. Where he could live without judgment while we make the world a kinder place for him to live in.”

“I want that too," Erik closes his eyes, still stroking Charles' hair. "You should build a school, Charles. Not a prison.”

Charles imagines it while they lie there. The sign on the front gate torn off and melted, a new one in its place. Other children joining Scott to hang tinsel, to learn how to channel their powers, to trust themselves.

"Xavier's School for the Gifted," Charles smiles.

"Yes,” Erik hums. “I think you would be a wonderful teacher." He pauses. “Do you remember being a child?"

"Some bits,” Charles agrees. "Mostly I try to forget. I was rather lonely."

“I can't remember," Erik says. “I think I was happy, sometimes. Before the Nazis came.”

Charles turns in his hold, looking at him. “Do you trust me?"

"Yes,'' Erik says simply.

Charles puts two fingers to Erik's temple, and they both close their eyes.

There's enough terror and pain and rage in Erik's mind to drown the hundreds Charles had been overcome by after his accident, but Charles doesn't linger here. He feels it, a bright spot, so far away it's been lost from conscious recall.

Charles sighs when he sees the lit flames of the chanukiah, smiles at the warm feeling. Love, enveloping. Edie's pride in her son.

When Charles opens his eyes, Erik is wiping away tears, and Charles reaches up to offer a sweater sleeve.

“I didn't know I still had that," Erik swallows, but he is smiling. Charles leans up and kisses him slowly, hand resting on the small of his back.

*

The snow melts.

“When my people come for me, it will give you plausible deniability to anyone who might question your security. And it will give my followers a victory.”

Charles pulls him closer, but Erik moves back far enough to See Charles' face.

“I won't let anyone stand between me and my freedom," Erik kisses his forehead. "Not even you.”

Charles shakes his head. ''I don't want to be your jailer. I know you're not meant to stay,” he swallows, thinking of Erik beyond the grounds. If he will make it more than a month. "But I don't want to talk about it, either.”

Erik lets Charles intertwine his body with his own, and there's nothing else they can say.

*

Charles feels them approaching.

Hank is making eggs, and John and Scott are arguing again over what style of pancakes they will be having this morning. It’s peaceful. It feels like home.

When Erik goes still and looks up at Charles, he knows that he can sense them too.

The teleporter drops in with a puff of smoke and the others soon follow. They look around the room with hostility, but some confusion as well, as if they are surprised by what they find.

The mansion's occupants are on their feet, fangs bared, fire hissing, Kurt's tail flicking back and forth in some wonder.

“We're here for Magneto," a young woman with brown skin and a shock of white hair tells them. ''We don't want to hurt our own kind. But we will if you get in the way.”

Hank growls, leaning forward, and Charles holds him back. “I don't want there to be any bloodshed." He meets Erik's eyes. "Let them go."

Erik stands and walks over to his people, gaze flicking back to Charles.

It's happened too fast, Charles thinks. They had so much time together, but none at all. What did he do with it all? He looks at Erik like this, trying to memorize him, standing tall and proud, at ease with himself. Not shackled and suppressed and starched into obedience. Not a body on the six o’clock news.

Everyone in the room freezes. The eggs are still sizzling on the burner, the tap running.

“Charles?" Erik tilts his head, takes in the thirty or so frozen occupants.

"Do me a favor a take a little chunk out of the side of the mansion, would you?" Charles smiles. "Make it look good. And, Erik," he chokes. There are tears streaming down his face.

Erik strides back over and goes down to his knees, kissing Charles. He pulls back, and strokes Charles’ hair out of his face. “I’ll look forward to seeing your school," he says, swallowing.

Charles looks into his grey eyes, strong like steel, deep with understanding. He can't tell him to stay safe. There is no safety to be had. "Good luck," he says, hand on Erik's cheek. Looking one last time.

He drops his hand, and Erik walks away.

The movement in the room resumes, quick and decisive, and in a flash Erik is gone.

Everyone in the kitchen is looking at him. The eggs are starting to burn.

Charles rubs his eyes, hand shaking. “I’m sorry, I think I’m going to have to go to my study now. I've some calls I'm sure I'll be receiving soon. No reason for you not to carry on with breakfast," he smiles.

He wheels to the lift, down the long corridors, only the quiet swish of his wheels on hardwood. No footsteps by his side.

His office seems so empty. It is still winter, cold grey light filtering in through the windows. He pulls the blanket from the lounge, draping it over himself, holding it to his face for a moment and breathing in.

The phone starts to ring. It doesn't stop for a long time.

When he finally opens the door again, there is a cold plate of pancakes outside, lovingly placed on a little tray.

He feels a surge of protectiveness, all at once. A renewed hope that he hasn't felt for a very long time. There is work do be done.

“Thank you, Erik," he says to the empty room, and wheels down to the lift, plate in his lap.

 

Epilogue:

SIX YEARS LATER

“Letter for you," Ororo says, handing it over to Erik.

It's damn cold in this mountain fortress that he built, and he finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that he'd gone for practicality rather than aesthetic. Metal is, after all, one hell of a conductor.

"You're sure someone isn't trying to kill me?" Erik peers dubiously ate the envelope. It’s not like he gets credit card solicitations.

"It's fine," Ororo sighs. "We checked it. Besides, look at the address.”

Erik peers at the elegant, handwritten ink.

_XAVIER'S SCHOOL FOR THE GIFTED_

He tears it open and lays it on the table. "You're dismissed, lieutenant.”

"Yeah," Ororo smirks. She disappears in a swish of fabric, Erik absently latching the door shut behind her.

_Erik,_  
_I suppose I should say congratulations on saving the world and your subsequent exoneration, but I know you only did it grudgingly because the future of mutantkind was at stake. I'm very proud of you._  
_Anyway, your exoneration was very convenient for me, as it just so happens I could use your Masterful Magnetism skills with a little project. Could you stop by the school, when you get a chance?_  
_Love,_  
_Charles_

_P.S., as you might have gleaned from the envelope, yes, we are now official_

When Erik returns to the grounds it is a warm June day, the grass bright green with the oncoming summer. Someone has planted flowers in the garden beds; they are a riot of color rather than manicured, and he thinks Charles must have let one of the children scatter seeds, or practice their ability. He can see some of them huddled about the basketball court, whispering about the newcomer, though he would be surprised if they could recognize him in his traveling pants and flannel.

He can feel Charles before he sees him, a burst of delight that makes the children look up at the mansion and laugh, then resume their game. He can feel Charles' chair moving more rapidly than ever has before, the brief warm contact of Charles' hands on the rims.

The mansion doors open, and Charles smiles down at him. "Erik!” he says, then seems to recover himself. He looks Erik over, and projects a pleased contentment. "You’re looking well.”

“I’m fine,” Erik confirms, knowing he was once again plastered on the evening news covered in blood only a few short weeks ago.

"You know," Charles says at the top of the steps. "I'm experiencing a bit of deja vu. I think this must have been the month when you first arrived here. The lawn was green, and you were thinking about killing me.”

Erik smirks, and projects an image to Charles. “And what am I thinking about now?"

Charles wheels hurriedly down the side ramp and Erik meets him, leaning down to give him a kiss. It goes on for quite some time.

Erik can hear Hank gasp from the doorway, and he snorts.

 _Yes, he was always better at research than clinical practice,_ Charles projects. _Oh, he's running back to the Cerebro prototype now. Lovely. Would you like the tour?_

"Lead the way, Professor," Erik gestures, and Charles does.

There are children's drawings on the fridge, smiling blue crayon faces. There is a girl studying in the library, pages flipping with a flick of her fingers. There are names on the once dusty doors, an entire wing of the mansion now open again. Erik looks outside and sees two children laughing as they play a game of tag, one of the girls phasing through the trees.

It feels like a home, he thinks.

"Yes," Charles says. "Welcome home, Erik.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi! to be clear, take your meds if that is a good thing for you
> 
> also if you're like "is this stockholm and or lima syndrome" i mean, i won't argue with that 
> 
> please let me know if there are any weird formatting errors or something i should tag
> 
> P.s. comments are writer fuel my friends 
> 
> <3


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